Young Wild Things
by damn expensive eggs
Summary: Then he tells you, "Nothing's impossible." Then all you have to say is, "Well, some things are." - Scraps, basically. Boyish soliloquies, dream sequences, silly emotions. Nothing too good here.
1. McCormick I

**A/N: **Hi, sorry I'm like behind on all my other stories hfkldjshlk :( But to show that I'm still alive and (kind of) writing, here's a place where I throw things I've written already but never published anywhere and/or only posted on my tumblr. So if you follow me on tumblr, you might have read what's coming up in the next few chapters. Except this first chapter, I just finished this like right this very second. 8D

So these'll be single character-centric with pairings on the side! Something to just remind me (and hopefully you) why we love SP in the first place. I kinda wanna just write at least one chapter for the each of the boys. We'll start with McCormick, with Tweak and Tucker coming up, and we'll see what happens after that. :D **THESE CHAPTERS ARE NOT IN CHRONOLOGICAL ORDER AND MAY OR MAY NOT HAVE ANYTHING TO DO WITH EACH OTHER**, and to make that clear and fun at the same time, I'm putting dates at the tops of the chapters. 8)

Trying to keep this short as possible, so just enjoy!

(also, you can choose who Kenny is talking to in this chapter, if it isn't obvious. ;D)

* * *

**You Wouldn't**_  
_**K. McCormick I  
****October 5th, 2010**

Welcome to South Park, bitch.

You think you know a town.

And then that town just comes right on around and hammers you in the face with a batload of nails on fire.

This town just kills me. When it rains aliens and giant robots and talking towels, it can't find anything else more ridiculous to shit from its clouds, so it decides to kill me. The town's like, hey, we have nothing better to do, let's kill Kenny and call it a day. Good work, everyone. We've killed Kenny. With a flaming fucking flamingo. And everyone just _thrives_ on it, like, when I'm not even talking, everyone looks at me, expecting something to happen to me so they can laugh, and then I'll probably miss something awesome that happened while I was dead, and, boom, you hear the Seinfeld bass line and I'm in my motherfucking kitchen, eating a strawberry frosted Pop-Tart.

But you knew this already.

_"I did."_

Do you know how many times I've died?

_"As many times as I've spent time with you."_

And do you know how many fucking times that would be?

_"Well, it's definitely not me who's counting."_

I've died more times than the valiant should.

That was a Shakespeare thing. I heard it a lot, when I was in school. I was stuck in ninth grade English for a while. I heard it every year. It was something like... Cowards die many times before their death, or something. And then... The valiant never tastes death but once. Did you ever hear that? I bet you've never read Shakespeare. Hell, I haven't. But I was just thinking, how wrong he might have been. I'm not a fucking coward. I'm not afraid to die anymore.

It doesn't even _hurt_.

And I mean, I've got more stupid stories to tell than anyone outside of this godforsaken town. Everyone. I know everyone. And everyone knows everyone, but especially me. I especially know every fucking one of these people and I feel the pain they feel when they wake up and wonder how they even ended up in this place.

No one _wants_ to be here. People are here, just because they are. It's like we all sprouted up from the ground, like we weren't naturally bred or we all just came here for a better life, like happy little fucking pilgrim settlers and their twenty-dollar land. We're just _here_, like we're part of some fucked up kid's imagination and they just keep throwing their dumb ideas into this town. Like a trash can. Like some tiny fucking part of the world that has nothing to do with the rest of it.

Like... Where the Wild Things Are. Did you ever read that book? Or see the movie?

_"No."_

I figured.

_"Why do you figure?"_

You don't seem like you were exposed to those kinds of things. Like those sweet-ass children's books that are so sugarcoated, you get cavities and cavities in your cavities and then you get diabetes and a splitting ache in your stomach like you just got stabbed by a sparkling rainbow machete.

_"That's happened to you, hasn't it?"_

I can't think of anything that hasn't happened to me in this town.

But, what I was saying was... Where the Wild Things Are. Our town is kind of like, where the wild things end up. It's kinda like... kinda like... like we're all chunks and pieces of someone's childish imagination. Monsters, from that point of view. We can't _be_ South Park without all the people that make it up, and some of us are, like... the angry, chaotic side of the imagination, some more calm, some more insane. Really... really, fuck, I can't explain it. I have no fucking idea. This town's just big fucking wild rumpus... and... you know what I'm talking about?

_"I really, really don't understand."_

It's okay.

You wouldn't.


	2. Tucker I

**Swings  
C. Tucker I  
August 28th, 2004**

Tweek's a pretty interesting guy. A guy, yes, contrary to popular belief. He keeps his hair kind of long. He doesn't like scissors. He can't hold them straight.

There's only so much you can do with the guy at, say, a theme park. You should see the way he squeams in line for some sort of roller coaster or deathly high swing ride with seats for two. He shakes and complains about the safety hazards and stability of the ride's structure as if he knows what he's talking about - and for a while, you think he does know what he's talking about. It's not long before you realize he's making up every danger possible so he doesn't have to go on the ride.

And then there comes the arc in which he's convinced it'll be safe. No accidents have ever taken place, and I'm there with him. As long as I was there, there shouldn't have been a reason for him to be afraid that the swing would fly off the chain or the roller coaster car would fling off the tracks. You can only tell him it's highly unlikely that such a thing will happen, then he goes off on a scare about the miniscule likeliness that it _will_ happen. That's when you have to tell him it's impossible.

Then he tells you, nothing's impossible.

Then all you have to say is, "Well, some things are."

And it just hits me. It's not really a hit, it's more like a brush past you, or a bump, when some douchebag collides shoulders with you without apologizing and you're like, "Hey, asshole, watch where you're going." First, you see the guy coming and you think he's not going to crash into you, but you move over just to be sure. Then he gains speed and it almost seems like he goes out of his damn way bump your shoulder and make you drop all the shit you're holding. But, enough about that, the thing is, it hit me that I hadn't ever had someone like Tweek in my life before - I mean, he's a friend. I've had friends. But a lot of them keep their distances. Tweek is someone you almost have to look after so he doesn't crash into a pole because he's distracted by a shiny object - and not for whatever retarded reasons anyone else would be distracted by this. This kid will think it's a UFO and start going on a rampage of warnings and conspiracies and things he's seen on the Sci-Fi channel.

I never had anything this _cute_ in my life before. And don't stop me here just because of how dumb that sounds coming from me, but what else could someone call this kid? I mean, Stripe was pretty cute. I knew a lot of dogs wearing hats that were super cute. But they weren't people. I've never met a _person_ as incoherently cute as Tweek. I think it's because all those house pets are so cute that I find Tweek to be as cute - guinea pigs wiggle their noses sometimes. Tweek does that. Dogs curl up and shake when they're scared. Tweek does that, too.

And he doesn't trust many other people besides himself. He knows what's safe for him, even if it means he has to bullshit his way out of a crazy idea because he's terrified of the consequences. He cuts himself off from the real world with different things - forms of meditations he learned from his therapist, and MMO RPGs where he doesn't have to be himself for a couple of hours. But of course, he can't only rely on that one person. He'd need someone to fall back on, to save him from himself if he ever needed it.

We fought once. Neither of us won. We're equals, but on different levels of reality. He's farther from the real world than I am. Either way, we both try to stay away from it.

If I die, let it be known that this kid is going to need someone to fall back on. He can't take it on alone.

I'm just hoping that I can fall back on him, too.


	3. Tweak I

**Tendencies  
T. Tweak I  
October 2nd, 2005**

_"You okay, man?"  
_  
He asks me the same question all the time,

and I'm all, "Yeah, I'm okay,"

And he's always all,

_"Are you sure?_

And I'm all, "Yeah, I'm fine, you don't gotta ask me so many times."

And he goes,

"_Yeah, okay, good, because I want you to know,_

_man,_

_I care about you, _

_you know,_

_so if you wanna talk to me, _

_you know_—_"_

But I'm like, "Dude,

I know,

you can chill,

I don't need you on my back all the time."

And he's all,

_"You've been acting fucking weird,_

_you sure you don't need something?"_

And then I start screaming, like, "I don't need you on

my fucking back all the time!

I can take care of myself!

If you would QUIT

QUESTIONING

ME, I WOULD BE

O —

FUCKING

— KAY

YOU KNOW?"

And he looks all appalled and whatnot, and he goes,

"_Dude, you totally_

_gotta chill."_

And I'm like, "_I_ have

to chill?

What about

_you?_"

He goes,

_"I'm fine. _

_You need to take a pill."_

And I just

stop right there.

And go,

"You know what? I'm going to go

check something,

to make sure it's not on fire.

Okay?"

And he doesn't say anything,

he kind of just stands there,

and he walks

away

like he doesn't want to deal with me anymore

and that's okay.


	4. Tucker II

**Yellow  
C. Tucker II  
November 11th, 2005**

To whomever it may concern: I have been asked to sit in the back of this murky-smelling, fruitfly-infested, windowless room within a room within a room to write down my most recently experienced dream. I am writing this foreword to clear up that any dream I might have described in the guidance counselor's office probably came off as psychotic or legitimately insane or batshit or however else you adults classify our little adolescent brains. I want to make sure that anyone who is concerned about my mental health can be assured that I'm perfectly normal, and that I don't end up in the back of ambulance from slamming my head in an oven door or locked up in a padded cell where college interns spoon-feed me creamed corn or something. I don't want that to happen to me. That doesn't happen to normal kids.

"Your son has some problems," you guys would tell my parents. "We would highly recommend taking him to see a specialist," one of you continues, ripping a piece of eyes-liable-to-melt-out-of-your-sockets-from-the-sheer-color _yellow _paper to write down what looks like an address. A stupid address. Numbers I'll never remember.

I threw out the address while my parents were sleeping.

It wasn't that hard.

And I'm still here.

Read this and tell me I'm normal.

It starts out like a film. There's a title card. Credits, names, but I can't read them. For all I knew, they could have all been the same name. All I know is that I was the director. I'm always the director. There's a desert, and giant fruit, and a tiger clinging onto a tree, and all the names are flashing by too fast for me to read, and there's a Nickelback song playing, and I do not even like Nickelback.

Then I'm in a car. I don't know how I got here, but I'm racing, racing, it's loud and fast and I try to lift my head from the headrest. It doesn't budge. I'm paralyzed and I can't steer the car. The car looks blue but I know it's red. There's dinosaurs outside the tracks and they're battling over some yogurt, and I do not even like yogurt. My fingers glued stiff to the wheel, I'm swerving until I hit the foot of a giraffe, I hear someone ask, "Will the real Slim Shady please stand up?" and I'm burning in an explosion of blue and green flames.

At this point, I vaguely remember seeing some Russian characters written on the walls of my bedroom. I do not even speak Russian. I may or may not have been awake. I think I was balancing on the barrier between consciousness and unconsciousness, because everything in my room was completely normal other than the Russian writing. My head ached and my eyelids were webbed together by some sort of gunk that kept them in this semi-open state. Everything's a blur, like I'm looking through one of those transparent sheets that teachers use to project dry-erase writing onto an overhead, but someone didn't erase the marker too well. When I saw my sister give a triple suplex to my guinea pig, I was pretty sure I was falling farther down the side of unconsciousness.

My dreams seem to have horrible transitioning sequences. When I start making my films, the scene transitions will be the most amazing thing your eyes will ever see. My dreams are irrelevant in this field, for I am now in a carnival in Peru. I hate Peru. The tents are the same grotesque yellow as the lost paper the address was written on.

Now, everything slows down. I'm pretty sure I was still in Peru, even though I really, really didn't want to be, but I was in a bathroom. It looks a lot like my own bathroom. There's a line of light bulbs above the mirror but two out of seven of them are burnt out. There's a lot of people in the bathroom. Most of them are in the mirror. They're not on my side of the universe. The person in the foreground of this group of people happened to be a friend. But he didn't look like himself. I knew it was him. I wished it looked like him. He said, "Bummer your toaster's broken," which is completely and utterly out of character for him. He doesn't use the word "bummer" and he's not much for sympathizing about broken home appliances, apparently, though, I was inhumanely furious that he broke this news to me, so I took this bright pink hairbrush out of the sink and threw it as hard as my dream self could, at the mirror. The mirror shattered and the broken shards disappeared, and then he was in front of me. He was a lot shorter than he is in real life, but he had the right face. I knew that face too well. He looked pissed with me, which was pretty understandable considering I broke the barrier between our universes. I always wanted to break that barrier between us, I could remember it in my dream-logic memory that it was my goal to break the barrier. We lived on different levels of reality - his side of the universe had a lot more color. Things moved, and there was energy. My side was dull and calm. Nothing moved except for me and him.

Like I said, he was pissed. He was wearing gloves and he never wears gloves. He looked like he was getting ready to kick my ass and I didn't want that to happen, so I took the hairbrush from before, which was now a sickening yellow, and I threw it at the lights so that not just two out of seven them were burnt, but all of them were destroyed and there were sparks everywhere, and suddenly I was fighting my friend in another ring of flames, but these were the correct color. I felt licks of heat at my skin as I fought him. He knew boxing and I knew martial arts and it looked like the Simba VS. Scar scene from the Lion King. I was Simba and he was Scar even though in real life, I would probably be Scar and he would be Simba, but I knew I was Simba because I was winning. I was on top of him, and he had blood and bruises on parts of him that I didn't even touch, and I whispered to him, "Hakuna matata," and I threw him off the cliff even though that isn't what happened in the Lion King.

I was in my bathroom again, and everything was just perfectly okay. Nothing was burned like it had been before. The mirror was okay and the lights were all on again, and _he _was on the other side of the mirror as he was before. He wasn't dead. He came back. And he told me something in German, and I do not even speak German.

Then, he held out his gloved hand. He had bruises on his fingertips, bright purples and reds like they were fresh off the beating. I grabbed his hand and he pulled me into his universe, and no one else was there, and we were sitting in a theatre at that split second, and My Life: The Movie was playing, and there were guinea pigs and red cars and animals close-up with a wide-angle lens and Peruvian flute bands and laser eyes and someone was cutting off my balls and taking my money and stealing my power and duct-taping me to a flag pole and I was fighting someone in the snow and I was played by Tom Hanks and it was directed by Clint Eastwood and myself. Those were the only names I made out in the credits. There was also some really hardcore screamo music playing, I don't remember what song it was, but I really wish I knew so I could put it on my iPod.

It's really not to say that this dream - film - cinematic dream… cinedream, had a happy ending. The movie we were watching never did end, and somewhere along the way I remember the following things: macchiatos, Brokeback Mountain, someone named Joe, a deer getting skinned, and a shark, amongst other unexplainable things. I woke up and came here to write this paper, and there's a spaceman across the room from me, doing the same thing I am, so I'm not sure if I'm still dreaming or not.

Tell me I'm normal.


	5. Tweak II

("you" is craig. second person is fun.)

**Knots  
T. Tweak II  
December 16th, 2021 **

Your dreams shrink as you grow older.

They shrink progressively as you get suckered into the void of realism. It starts out like this: You want to be a spaceman. You want to go to the moon and fight monsters. Save the planet from invaders. You've never been more ambitious about anything in your life. You're sure this is your destiny.

Then, you tone it down. But just a bit. Maybe I'll stay on the planet, you think. Maybe I'll just be in a rock band and have millions of adoring fans that way. Maybe I'll pick up a guitar right now.

Then, you fail at the guitar. As you grow older, you go through revelations and roller coasters and inevitable epiphanies. Hey, you think, I have to go to school for this. It's all a lie. I can't actually be whatever I want. It's all a lie. Everything. A lie.

You're thirty now. Both you and I, we're thirty. We're past the ages of delusion. Now, our job is to plant delusion in the minds of impressionable youngsters. We're distrusted by the younger crowd. We can't up and assure them they can be whatever they want, because we know it's not true. But we don't have the heart to break it to them.

I've never met a kid who dreamt of being the assistant manager of a pretzel kiosk at the mall.

As assistant manager, you tend to order people around. Train newbies. Twisting pretzel dough used to be an art for you, but now it's a chore. I understand you find some boring things fascinating. Like pigeons and oatmeal. Pretzels too, once upon a time. Now you hate them. Salt. Mustard. Anything you work with. You come home smelling like it every day. Sometimes, I have dinner ready for you.

I don't even ask you how it is. "Too salty," you mutter, setting down your fork.

I apologize. You're like, "No, it's okay," and settle for Entenmann's cake for dinner. I don't know what to do. I never know what to do. I put away your food for later, to play pretend it won't go to waste.

Sometimes, when you tie your tie, you forget how. You start a pretzel process. Then, I have to tie it for you. This is okay.

I ask you how work is. "I don't like pretzels," you say.

"I know you don't like pretzels."

"Stop buying pretzels." You're referring to the Snyder's I buy.

"Okay."

"If I see a pretzel in this house, I'll vomit."

The issue is, I really, really, really like pretzels.

Maybe the idea that you don't want me to eat them in the house makes it all the more tempting. I probably wouldn't even buy them if you didn't supposedly ban them. I buy bags and try to finish them before I get home to you. You smell it on my breath most of the time. When we kiss. I try to pull back, but you go in right for the kill.

"Seriously." You stick out your tongue in disgust.

"Sorry," I say. It seems to be all I say lately. I head right for the bathroom to brush my teeth. But you also don't like the taste of mint. We don't kiss for awhile, sometimes.

After that while, I show up at the mall and sit at one of the little, metallic square tables. You bring me a soft pretzel to make up for the withdrawal. It's okay, when you're at work. It all smells like pretzels anyway. It's white noise.

You don't want to quit. You fear you won't be able to find a better job. I think you feel sorry that you can't make more money for us, but our income is substantial. You've never directly admitted to this insecurity, but I know it's there. I know you don't like to think about it. Sometimes, I want to know more about how you feel. About how your dreams spiraled down to the narrow end of a funnel. As if this is your last step of your journey. Pretzel guy.

But I don't mind.


End file.
